


Fed Up

by foxontherun



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Force-Feeding, M/M, Masturbation, chilton is a dbag, hannibal is also kind of a dbag
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-02
Updated: 2014-04-02
Packaged: 2018-01-17 21:15:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1402669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foxontherun/pseuds/foxontherun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chilton gets upset that Hannibal Lecter isn't eating his hospital food and decides a little force-feeding will be good revenge for all the times Hannibal's made him eat people. (Dubcon for forcefeeding, but not sexual)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fed Up

**Author's Note:**

> Oh god what have I done.

Dr Chilton sighs, clicking his tongue against his front teeth as he reads over Hannibal's chart.

 

"Hmmm," he says raising an eyebrow at the man sitting stock still in the cage in front of him. "It says here you've been refusing to eat. Is that true?"

 

Hannibal says nothing, just leveling that same unwavering crimson gaze at Chilton, his face betraying nothing. Privately, of course, Hannibal was laughing, albeit bitterly. The food they had been giving him was beyond an insult. Hardly worthy as base nutrients, certainly not appetizing enough to put anywhere near his mouth. In his mind he conjures up mouth-watering seven course dinners. Some of his own devising, some recreations of meals long past, at a small taverna in Siena, at a chic molecular gastropub in the heart of Basque country, at several Michelin-starred restaurants on the East Coast of the US. But he refuses to pollute his body by choking down the slop they've been giving him for every meal. He can feel himself growing slightly thinner, the prongs of his ribs becoming more prominent, his belly shrinking inwards. He doesn't care. Better to waste away to nothing than give Chilton the satisfaction of watching Hannibal shove his offensive food into his mouth.

 

"You've lost 7 pounds in the 2 weeks you've been here," Chilton says neutrally, narrowing his eyes at Hannibal. "I've half a mind to deem it unsafe, medically, for you to continue to fast in this way. If you don't start eating voluntarily, I'll have to resort to...other measures." He shrugs his shoulders, feigning unconcern, and taps his cane against the floor. Hannibal merely stars at him until the other psychiatrist breaks his gaze, glancing down at his hands, unnerved. "Have it your way," he bites out, before making his way out of the room, feeling the weight of Doctor Lecter's gaze on his back the whole way.

 

Up in his office, Chilton sits in his chair, watching Lecter on the monitor, his posture perfect, his stare somewhere out into the middle distance. What did the doctor think of when he went into these trances, Chilton wondered. Graham thought of fishing, that he knew, but nothing quite so relaxing and banal for Lecter. Was he thinking of murder? Was he thinking of the hunt and the kill, of blood staining his mouth and hands? Or was he thinking of elaborate dinner parties he could plan. Was he thinking about his guests, never suspecting, dining on human flesh, with Lecter standing above them all, a smug smile on his face? Chilton shudders, bitter bile coating the back of his throat as he thinks of just how many times he himself had been a guest at that same table. How many times had Hannibal Lecter fed him human meat, laughing at him all the while. Chilton stands up, suddenly furious.

 

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Hannibal Lecter doesn't struggle when the orderlies come for him. He doesn't struggle when they strap him down to a sterile-looking exam table, tilted at a slight angle. He doesn't even struggle when they insert the tube into his stomach, although he can't help his body's natural gagging and choking reflexes, emitting thick harsh sounds as the tube is inserted, tears springing unbidden to his eyes. He is unable to turn his head due to the restraints, but he lets his eyes flicker sideways to where Chilton is sitting comfortably against a low table. There is no emotion in those eyes - Hannibal won't let any show. He will submit to this, as he must submit to his incarceration, and when the time is right he will cut out Chilton's eyes and testicles and feed them to him raw, before skinning him alive. With his teeth, maybe. He looks away from Chilton up into the harsh light that has been flicked on above him. He closes his eyes, and visits a little museum in Vienna where they keep most of Egon Schiele's drawings and sketches. He examines each one minutely.

 

Chilton nods to the orderlies, and they begin funneling the thick substance into Lecter's stomach via the tube. It's a mixture of protein powder, almond milk, and various nutrients, plus some good old lipids. Not entirely tasty, but then, Lecter couldn't taste it anyways. At least it was nutritious. Good for bulking up. Chilton stares at Hannibal's stomach, which is quickly swelling as the mix fills him up. He takes a breath to hide the rush this is giving him, feeling his cock twitch in his pants. Interesting, he thinks distractedly, watching Hannibal's stomach swell to the point where the man starts making little noises of discomfort, not exactly struggling, but moving minutely, clamping his teeth around the tube. After a few minutes Hannibal is openly moaning, and drool has run down both sides of his face to stain the collar of his white shirt. His eyes are rolling in pain and his stomach looks like someone has inflated it with a pump. Chilton stops the orderlies with a gesture of his hand, and they pull the feeding tube out. Hannibal makes a harsh choking sound, and a thin rill of bile runs down his chin. He's stopped moaning, but his breathing is tight and labored, and he's straining slightly to curl inward. The pain in his belly must be quite severe, Chilton thinks, in order to make him break his serene mask this much. He runs a shaking hand down his face, and turns to head out the door, trying to hide his inexplicable erection from his staff.

 

But Hannibal sees it.

 

Up in his office, Chilton locks the door and sits down at his desk with his legs spread. Rewinding the video-tape of the exam room, he presses play as the feeding tube is inserted into Lecter's stomach, and drops his hand down to palm himself through his pants at the first choking gasp from onscreen. He's already slick with precum, and he takes himself tightly in hand, feeling vicious and powerful. He has Lecter totally under his control - could do literally anything to the man. Who's going to believe a cannibal over a respected psychiatrist? He can keep force-feeding Hannibal for as long as he wants. He can force Hannibal to do other things, too. Forced enemas, forced ejaculations. Chilton fists himself and strokes fast and hard, tugging at his balls as he pictures Hannibal, bent over an exam table and spread open. A few more strokes and Chilton comes into his fist, biting his lips raw to avoid groaning.

 

He cleans himself up neatly with a tissue, and leaves the office with a smile on his face.

 

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

 

 After a few weeks of regular 'feeding sessions,' Chilton is beginning to be happy with the results. He sits comfortably in front of Lecter's cell and watches the other man as he stares at a spot slightly above Chilton's left ear.

"You're looking much better," Chilton says with a smirk, "much more healthy. Your weight has increased back into a normal range for someone of your height, and, dare I say some color has come back into your cheeks." He taps his cane on the floor, and takes a look at Hannibal's body.

 

Hannibal is still looking as fit as ever. Chilton knows that he devotes much time in his cell to exercise. It's the only thing he seems to do, other than stare into space. His upper body is well-defined, even through the t-shirt he wears, but Chilton pays more attention to his torso and stomach. He's put on around 20 pounds in just a few weeks, gaining back the original amount he lost plus an extra 6 pounds, which sit squarely around his middle, his stomach pushing against the fabric of his shirt in a most enticing way. It's a perfect round little thing, complementing Hannibal's lean body structure perfectly. Chilton's mouth goes a little dry at the sight and thought of it. He wonders how much longer he can keep up the charade of any medical reason for these feedings. Hannibal is healthy again. He thinks, maybe there might be some way to sneak something into his food to continue the weight gain, but that's not appealing to him as much. It's not really the weight, it's what it means to Chilton. It's the control that he loves. The delicious revenge he's feeling every day when he sees Lecter's stomach swell against his will. Just the thought threatens to make him hard again.

 

"Frederick," he's startled out of his thoughts by the unexpected voice from the cell across. The voice is as soft, cultured and charmingly accented as ever, but when Chilton looks up he nearly gasps at the rage in the man's maroon eyes. Hannibal lets his mask slip, just a little, and all his hatred, his madness, and an inky flush of pure evil seep out, drying Chilton's mouth and making his legs weak. He sees Lecter as he truly is, just for one second, a split second, and he nearly urinates in his pants, and just like that, the moment is over. Hannibal's eyes are as shuttered as ever, but a small smile plays over his lips as he eyes the terrified doctor.

 

"I seem to have regained my appetite," he nearly purrs.


End file.
